


missing piece

by orphan_account



Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: M/M, Multi, also this IS stozier NOT reddie reddie is just mentioned, richie's mostly selectively mute, they all have PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-23
Updated: 2017-11-23
Packaged: 2019-02-05 19:23:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12800679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: In which Richie Tozier blames himself, and him and Stanley heal each other.





	missing piece

  It wasn’t that Richie physically couldn’t talk. He could. He did, sometimes. If he had a coupon, he’d say, “Coupon.” and hand the cashier the coupon. If he wanted a drink and didn’t have his notebook, he’d say, flatly, “Sprite.” and look back off into space. He just didn’t  _ like  _ to. When he was younger, Richie Tozier  _ never  _ shut the fuck up. His friends would call him Trashmouth because of it. He had no filter, and he had an endless supply of words. But when that fucking  _ clown  _ happened… none of them were the same.

  Mike couldn’t sleep more than four hours a night. His red working gloves were cast aside for ugly beige ones. He couldn’t look at them without his heart racing. Beverly couldn’t smoke less than four cigarettes a day. Never again were they Marlboros. Eddie couldn’t take red pills anymore. They had to be another colour. Bill couldn’t look at the colour red without being on the verge of an anxiety attack. Stan couldn’t stand loud noises or people looking at him for too long. He couldn’t look at paintings or sharp objects without flashbacks hitting him like a fucking truck. 

  Richie couldn’t talk. He couldn’t bring himself to say anything. He blamed himself for everything that had happened. From the first inital making fun of Eddie and his mom and his medication to the end, running his mouth at Neibolt. After the way Stan had cried and screamed, he could barely choke out the rest of his words that day. He knew, deep down, he didn’t help. His jokes didn’t help anyone, they were just a way of distracting people, for better or for worse. That wasn’t what he had wanted to do.

  So, beginning of Sophomore year, he started carrying around a notebook instead. Him and Eddie had tried to date, but it didn’t work. They both thought there was something, but after everything had happened, it got lost somewhere in the sewers along with Richie’s words. They mutually broke up and agreed they were better off as close friends, edging over the line of platonic and romantic sometimes, but they knew what they were. Sometimes Richie wondered if him and Eddie  _ were  _ meant to be together, but when he looked at Eddie, all he felt was the protective love he had felt before. Nothing more than the closest two people could be and a tiny bit over.

  When him and  _ Stan  _ met eyes, however, there was something else. Richie never needed to talk. Stan always listened. He didn’t need words to talk to Stan. There was never an awkward silence. He’d spend nights in Stan’s bed, listening to him ramble on softly about some weird tourist he saw at the Standpipe. He’d press his knee against Stan’s at lunch if he started getting too nervous about the noise. Bill, Eddie, and Mike had something figured out for themselves. It confused Richie, but he was supportive. They were all cute together. 

  There was a night where Stan was crying. He was crying when Richie slipped into his room through the window and he was crying when Richie wrapped his arms around him and held him tightly. He was crying until Richie said, softly, “Stan?” Stan looked up at him and sniffed grossly and his eyes went wide. Richie laced their fingers together and he squeezed Stan’s hand. “I love you.”

  Stan smiled a little and laughed. “That’s… you still have bad timing, Richie,” he chuckled. He reached for a tissue and wiped the snot off of his face and threw it away before continuing. He squeezed Richie’s hand back and put his head on Richie’s shoulder. He thought it over for a moment, listening to Richie breathe and hum a little. It was quiet, and Stan wondered if he just hadn’t noticed it before or if it was something new. Just for him. He finally decided on a gentle, “I love you, too.” and another hand squeeze.

  From then on, Richie started talking more. It was nowhere near as much as he would have the year prior, but it was more than just, “Coupon.” and “Sprite.” and he was happy. He laughed more and he said his friends’ names. He only really  _ talked  _ to Stan, and it was always in the same gentle voice he’d used that first night, when Stan wiped his snot off with a Kleenex and Richie held him and they fell asleep in each other’s arms. There was nothing missing, like there had been with Eddie. And he didn’t  _ want  _ there to be anyone else. Stan was his missing piece.

  He got scared and jealous easily, sure, but Stan was okay with it. He understood. He never raised his voice at Richie for anything, he never called him an idiot in  _ that  _ tone, he never did anything to upset him. Richie knew that soulmates existed, of course. He thought that that was him and Eddie - the scars on their hands matched, and when Richie was younger, he thought that meant they were supposed to be. However, later on, all of the losers got the same scar on their hands somehow. 

  Bev’s was from a cigarette burn, as Richie’s had been. Mike’s was from getting a huge splinter in his hand that he had to go to the hospital for. Bill’s was… well, no one knew where Bill’s came from. He’d come to school one day with a huge bandage over his hand and when they asked about it, he just waved it off. No one knew what it was from, and they never found out, but it matched. Ben’s was from trying to cut a piece of wood and cutting his hand instead. Stan got his when he was rummaging through things and a bookcase fell on his hand. It broke his hand and left a nasty scar for weeks, teetering into months when it got infected.

  Richie realised Stan was his soulmate when he didn’t have to clarify what he was trying to say. When Stan could order for him, no matter where they went. When Stan kissed him on October fourth and when he was able to talk properly to Stan. It wasn’t broken sentences or five letter ones anymore. It was whole conversations in the dark of Stan’s room at three AM about why Richie wanted to move out to California with everyone. “We can all get jobs,” he said. “We can get a parrot and name him Charlie, and a lizard and name him Spencer, and… and we can be okay.” 

  It was when Stan smiled at him and kissed him gently that he realised that was it. Him and Stan were what the universe wanted. It wasn’t him and dick jokes or him and Eddie. It was him and Stan. They were helping each other recover, and they were okay. When they wanted to tell the losers they were together, it was Thanksgiving day (“Thanksgiving is a bullshit holiday and we’re going to celebrate it all together. Fuck you, Eddie.  _ Yes,  _ I can eat turkey. No, listen…”) and it was Richie’s decision to speak up, quietly, “Stan and I are dating.”

  Everyone paused for a minute and looked at Stan. Stan nodded, and then Ben shrugged. “Okay. Richie, you have to remember…  _ three  _ of our friends are dating each other. They’re all boys. We… don’t care.” 

  Richie nodded and kept eating, but Bill cut in with, “Welcome back.” He didn’t have to explain what he meant. Everyone knew. That night, Richie stayed curled up against Stan’s side and they talked about everything that had gone on so far that week until they eventually both fell asleep, Stan’s light snoring a soundtrack for keeping Richie asleep.


End file.
